"Great guns!" the tanner cried out in consternation. "Where have you been? He's sick and off he goes, running around in the night! You'll catch your death."
"Right you are," said Knulp. "I see I'm just on time, Frau Rothfuss. I smelled your fine soup way over at the marketplace. That will keep my death away from me."
They sat down to eat. The master of the house was feeling talkative, he sang the praises of his home life and the advantages of being a master craftsman. He teased his guest and then lectured him in earnest; it was high time that he stopped gadding about doing nothing. Knulp listened but said little in reply, and the tanner's wife didn't open her mouth. She was annoyed with her husband, who struck her as uncouth compared to the handsome and well-mannered Knulp, and she showed her good opinion of the guest by the attentiveness with which she waited on him. At the stroke of ten, Knulp said good night and asked the tanner to lend him his razor.
"Did you ever see anybody so clean!" Rothfuss exclaimed. "The second his chin starts to tickle, his beard has to come off. Well, good night. I hope you feel better!"
Before going to his room, Knulp leaned out of the little window at the head of the stairs to take a look at the weather and see what was going on in the neighborhood. The wind had died down and between the roofs there was a black patch of sky studded with clear, damply shimmering stars.
He was about to pull in his head and close the window when suddenly the little window across from him, in the house next door, lighted up. He saw a small, low room very much like his own; a young servant girl had come in, holding a brass candlestick in one hand and in the other a large water pitcher, which she set down on the floor. Then she held the candle over her narrow bed. Covered with a coarse red blanket, it was plain but neat, and invited sleep. She put the candlestick down, he could not see where, and seated herself on a low green-painted wooden box, the typical servant girl's trunk.
The moment this unexpected scene began to unfold, Knulp had blown out his own candle, so as to avoid being seen, and now he stood quietly peering out of his window.
The girl across the way was the kind that appealed to him. She may have been eighteen or nineteen, not very tall, with an attractive olive complexion, brown eyes, and thick brown hair. Her pleasant, quiet face did not look exactly happy; all in all, she seemed rather woebegone as she sat there on her hard green box, and Knulp, who knew the world and young girls as well, had a pretty fair idea that the poor thing hadn't left her native village very long ago with her box, and was homesick. Holding her thin, dark-skinned hands in her lap, she sought brief comfort in sitting for a little while on her meager possessions and thinking of home.
As motionless in his window as she was in her room, Knulp peered with strange eagerness into this unknown human life, so innocently nursing its sweet sorrow in the candlelight without a thought that someone might be watching. He saw her kindly brown eyes, now unconcealed, now covered by long lashes, he saw the red light playing softly over her dark, childlike cheeks, and as he watched her slender young hands on the dark-blue cotton of her lap, he knew they were tired and resting awhile before getting down to undressing -- the day's last chore.
At last the girl raised her head with its heavy pinned-up braids, heaved a sigh, looked dreamily but no less sorrowfully out into the void, and then bent down to untie her shoelaces.
Knulp was reluctant to leave his post, but it struck him as wrong and almost cruel to watch the poor child undressing. He would have liked to call out to her and chat with her a while, to make some joke that would send her to bed a little happier. But he was afraid she would take fright and blow out her candle if he called to her.
Instead, he resorted to one of his many arts. He began to whistle. The sound was so faint that it seemed to come from the distance. He whistled the folk song "In a cool green valley, a mill wheel turns all day," and he managed to make his whistling so frail and delicate that the girl listened for some time without knowing quite what it was. It was only at the third stanza that she slowly stood up and went to the window.
She leaned out and listened, while Knulp went on whistling. For a few measures she wagged her head in time with the tune. Then suddenly she looked up and saw where it came from.
"Is there somebody over there?" she asked in a whisper.
"Only a tanner's apprentice," he answered just as softly. "I didn't mean to prevent you from sleeping. I was a little homesick, so I thought I'd whistle a tune. But I also know some cheerful ones. -- Are you a stranger here too?"
"I'm from the Black Forest."
"Ah, from the Black Forest. So am I. How do you like it here in Lächstetten? I don't like it at all."
"Oh, I don't know yet, I've only been here a week. But I don't really like it much. Have you been here long?"
"No, only three days. What village are you from?"
"You wouldn't know it."
"You never can tell. Or is it a secret?"
"Achthausen. It's only a hamlet."
"But a pretty one. The first thing you see is a chapel. Then there's a mill, a sawmill I think it is, and they've got a big yellow St. Bernard. Am I right or wrong?"
"My goodness, that's Bello!"
When she saw that he knew her village and had actually been there, the greater part of her suspicion left her; she perked up and asked eagerly: "Do you know Andres Flick?"
"No, I don't know anybody there. That's your father, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Then you must be Fräulein Flick, and when I find out your first name I'll be able to write you a postcard the next time I pass through Achthausen."
"Do you want to leave here so soon?"
"No, I don't want to. But I want to know your name, Fräulein Flick."
"But I don't know yours either."
"I'm sorry about that, but it's easily mended. My name is Karl Eberhard. Now if we meet in the daytime you know what to call me, but what am I to call you?"
"Barbara."
"Thanks. That's fine. But it's a hard name to pronounce and I'm almost willing to bet they called you Bärbele at home."
"Yes, they did. But if you know everything, why do you ask so many questions? And now it's time to go to sleep. Good night, tanner."
"Good night, Fräulein Bärbele. Sleep well, and just because it's you, I'll whistle another tune. Don't run away, there's no charge."
He started right in and whistled a flamboyant yodel-like tune full of trills and turns, which leapt and sparkled like dance music. Amazed at his skill, she listened to the end. When he had done, she slowly drew the shutters tight and fastened them, while Knulp found his way to his room in the dark.
Next morning Knulp got up early and made use of the tanner's razor. But the tanner had worn a full beard for years and the razor was so neglected that Knulp had to hone it on his suspenders for half an hour before it would cut. When he had finished, he put on his coat, picked up his shoes, and went down to the kitchen, where it was warm and already smelled of coffee.
He asked the tanner's wife for a brush and polish for his shoes.
"Go 'long!" she cried. "That's not the kind of work for a man. Let me do it."
But that he would not allow, and when finally with an awkward laugh she set down the brush and polish before him, he did the work thoroughly, neatly, and with playful ease, like a man who did manual labor only very occasionally, when in the mood, but then cheerfully and with great care.
"Beautiful!" said the tanner's wife admiringly, and looked at him. "As shiny as if you were going to see your sweetheart."
"Oh, I wish I were."
"I believe you. I'll bet you've got a pretty one." She laughed again insinuatingly. "Maybe more than one?"
"Oh, that wouldn't be nice," said Knulp reproachfully. "I can show you a picture of her."
She stepped eagerly closer as he drew his oilcloth portfolio from his pocket and took out the picture of Duse. She studied it with interest.
"She's high-c
lass," she began cautiously. "Almost like a real lady. But kind of skinny. Is her health all right?"
"Oh yes, as far as I know. But now I'll go say hello to the old man. I can hear him in the big room."
He went into the room and bade the tanner good morning. The room had been swept and looked friendly and homelike with its light-colored paneling, its clock, its mirror, and the photographs on the wall. A cozy room like this, thought Knulp, isn't bad in the winter, but it's not really worth marrying for. The favor shown him by the tanner's wife gave him no pleasure at all.
When they had had their coffee he went out in back with Rothfuss, who showed him through the tannery. Knulp knew almost every trade and amazed his friend by his knowledgeable questions.
"How do you know all that?" he asked with animation. "Anyone would think you were a journeyman tanner, or at least that you'd been one."
"A traveling man learns all sorts of things," said Knulp modestly. "Come to think of it, I learned about tanning from you. Don't you remember? Six or seven years ago, when we were on the road together. I made you tell me all about it."
"And you still remember all that?"
"Some of it, Rothfuss. But I won't take up any more of your time. Too bad, I'd have liked to give you a hand, but it's so damp and stuffy down there, and I've still got this cough. Goodbye for now, old man, I'll take a little turn in town while the rain holds off."
And neatly brushed, his brown felt hat tilted back just a little, he sauntered off with a light, jaunty step, carefully skirting the puddles. Rothfuss stood in the doorway looking after him.
"Lucky man," the tanner reflected with a twinge of envy. And on his way to the tanning pits Rothfuss thought about his eccentric friend who wanted nothing of life but to look on, and the tanner could not have said whether this was asking too much or too little. A man who worked hard and got ahead was better off in many ways, but he could never have such delicate, graceful hands or walk with so light and jaunty a step. No, Knulp was right in doing what his nature demanded and what few others could do, in speaking to strangers like a child and winning their hearts, in saying pleasant things to ladies of all ages, and making Sundays out of weekdays. You could only take him as he was, and when he needed a roof over his head, it was a pleasure and an honor to give him one; indeed, you almost wanted to thank him, for he brought lightness and gaiety into the house.
Meanwhile his guest, happy and alert with curiosity, strolled through the town, whistling a military march through his teeth, and, taking his time about it, sought out the places and people he knew from former days. First he climbed a steep hill to an outlying slum where he knew an unfortunate tailor, Schlotterbeck by name, who was forever mending old trousers and was seldom given a new suit to make. A great pity, for he was skilled at his trade, he had started out with high hopes and worked in good shops. But he had married young, he already had several children, and his wife had little talent for housekeeping.
Knulp found the tailor on the third floor of a house set back from the street. His little workshop hung like a bird's nest over the void, for the house was built on the hillside, and when you looked down from the windows, you not only had the three stories below you but further on a steep slope covered with pathetic slanting gardens and patches of grass and ending in a gray confusion of chicken coops, rabbit hutches, and woodsheds; the nearest roofs that could be seen lay far below, at the bottom of the valley. However, the workshop was light and airy, and as he sat cross-legged on his big table by the window the tailor could look out over the world like a lighthouse keeper.
"Morning, Schlotterbeck," said Knulp, stepping into the room. Blinded by the bright light, the tailor narrowed his eyes and peered in the direction of the door.
"Ah, Knulp!" he cried joyfully and held out his hand. "Back in town? And what's wrong, to bring you all the way up here?"
Knulp pulled up a three-legged stool and sat down. "Give me a needle and a bit of your very best brown wool, I want to check my equipment."
He removed his coat and vest, selected his yarn, threaded a needle, and with vigilant eyes inspected his whole suit, which still looked as good as new. Whenever he discovered a thin spot, a loose trimming, or a button that was not quite tight, he set it to rights with nimble fingers.
"And how are you otherwise?" Schlotterbeck asked. "The weather hasn't been so good. But then if a man has his health and no family. . ."
Knulp cleared his throat argumentatively.
"Yes, of course," he said wearily. "The Lord sends down His rain on righteous and unrighteous alike, and only the tailors keep dry. But you're never satisfied, are you, Schlotterbeck?"
"Oh, Knulp. I'm not complaining. But listen to the children screaming in there. There are five of them now. Here I sit, working my fingers to the bone till late at night, and it's never enough. And all you do is gad about."
"Wrong, my friend. I was in the hospital for four or five weeks in Neustadt, and they don't keep a man a minute longer than he absolutely needs, and nobody'd stay any longer anyway. The ways of the Lord are strange, friend Schlotterbeck."
"Keep your pious sayings to yourself."
"Lost your religion, eh? I've just been trying to get religion and that's why I came to see you. I want you to tell me all about it."
"Don't bother me with religion! In the hospital, you say? I'm sorry to hear that."
"Never mind, it's over now. I want you to tell me about Ecclesiasticus and Revelation. You see, I had plenty of time in the hospital, and they had a Bible. I read nearly all of it, so now I can put in a word too. A curious book, the Bible."
"You've got something there. It's curious, all right. Half of it must be lies, because nothing fits together. Maybe you understand it better, because you went to Latin school."
"I don't remember much of that."
"You see, Knulp. . ." The tailor spat through the open window and stared. There was bitterness in his face. "Religion is no good. It's no good and I'm through with it. Through with it."
The vagrant looked at him thoughtfully. "Really? Aren't you going too far, old friend? It seems to me there are some very good things in the Bible."
"Sure. And when you read a little further you always find the opposite. No, I'm fed up with it. Fed up."
Knulp had risen and picked up an iron.
"You could put a few chunks of coal on the fire," he suggested.
"What for?"
"I'd like to iron my vest a little, and it won't do my hat any harm either, after all that rain."
"Still the same old dandy!" cried Schlotterbeck with a note of irritation. "What's the good of dressing like a duke when you're half starved?"
Knulp smiled serenely. "It looks better and it gives me pleasure, and if you don't want to do it out of piety, just do it to be nice and to please an old friend."
The tailor left the room and soon came back with a hot iron.
"That's fine," said Knulp. "Thank you."
Cautiously he began to smooth the brim of his hat. But he was not as skillful at ironing as he was at sewing; his friend took the iron out of his hand and did it himself.
"That's very kind of you," said Knulp. "Now it's a Sunday hat again. But look here, tailor, you ask too much of the Bible. The way I see it, everybody's got to figure out for himself what's true and what life is like; those are things that you can't learn from any book. The Bible is old; in those days people didn't know a good many things that we know today; but for that very reason there are a lot of fine things in it, and true things too. Parts of it, I thought, were like a beautiful picture book. The way that girl -- Ruth -- goes through the fields gleaning, that's beautiful, you can smell the warm summer in it, or the way the Saviour sits down with the little children and thinks: You mean a lot more to me than all those grownups with their pride! If you ask me, he was right, and we can learn from him."
"Yes," Schlotterbeck admitted, "that's a fact. But it's easier to do that with other people's children th
an to have five of your own and not know how you're going to feed them."
He relapsed into bitter gloom and Knulp couldn't bear to see him that way. He resolved that before leaving he would say something to cheer him up. He thought a little while, then he leaned toward the tailor, looked earnestly into his face with his bright eyes, and said softly: "But don't you love your children?"
The tailor stared at Knulp in horror. "Of course I do! How can you say such a thing? Of course I love them, especially the oldest."
Knulp nodded earnestly.
"I'm going now, Schlotterbeck, and many thanks. My vest is worth twice as much now. -- But you've got to be kindly and cheerful with your children, that's food and drink to them. And now listen, I'm going to tell you something that nobody knows and that you needn't repeat."
Mollified, the tailor looked attentively into Knulp's clear blue eyes, which had grown grave. Knulp spoke so softly that the tailor had difficulty in understanding him.
"Look at me! You envy me. You think: he has no family and no worries. But you're all wrong. I have a child, a little fellow two years old. He was taken in by strangers because his father was unknown and his mother died in childbed. There's no need for you to know what city he's in, but I know, and when I go there I creep up to the house. I stand by the fence and wait, and when I'm in luck I see the little fellow. But I can't hold out my hand to him or give him a kiss; the most I can ever do is whistle a tune for him as I go by. -- Well, that's how it is, goodbye now, and be glad you have children."
Knulp continued on his way through the town. He stood for a while chatting at the window of a turner's shop and watched the swift play of the curly wood shavings. Farther on he stopped to say hello to the constable, who was devoted to him and held out his birchwood snuffbox. Wherever he went, old friends related the lesser and greater incidents of family and workshop, he heard of the untimely death of the municipal accountant's wife and of how the mayor's son had been misbehaving, and in return he reported on events in other towns, taking pleasure in the tenuous, good-humored ties which he, as friend, acquaintance, and sharer of secrets, had formed here and there with the more settled members of the population. It was Saturday. He stopped in the gateway of a brewery to ask the journeymen coopers where there would be dancing that evening and the next day.